The Witch's Tongue (31 page)

Without another thought, Kicks went and got it.

Though she wept in spells, and laughed, even offered thanks to God—the ecstatic woman would not find sleep again that night.

She spent all the wee hours counting crisp new greenbacks.

Charlie Moon was helping a couple of the cowboys shoe a skittish mare. The wild-eyed animal had already kicked a plank out of her stall; now she laid a hoof on the rancher’s thigh. When his cell phone demanded immediate attention, Moon was happy for an excuse to take a break. He limped out of the barn, leaned on the corral fence. “Yeah?”

“Charlie, it’s me.”

He was unable to smile. “Hello, McTeague. What’s up?”

Her voice crackled with excitement. “You will not believe it.”

“I am fairly gullible—try me.”

“Can’t talk about it. Not on an open line.”

“Let me get this straight—you called long distance just to tell me you can’t talk to me on the phone?”

“If you want to know what’s happened, you will have to saddle up and ride, cowboy.”

“Where to?”

“Three Sisters Mesa. Get here soon as you can.”

She found the grave in Snake Canyon
. “I’m on my way.”

“I’ll be looking for you.” She hung up.

He stared at the barn where the horse was still kicking sparks, half-wished he had not answered the telephone.

WHEN MOON
braked the big red pickup to a stop on Three Sisters Mesa, he counted six SUPD units, all with emergency lights flashing—and one gray government-issue Ford sedan. SUPD chief of police Wallace Whitehorse was involved in an intense conversation with Special Agent McTeague, but the Northern Cheyenne was doing far more listening than talking, mainly punctuating the FBI agent’s comments with grunts and nods. Whitehorse noticed Charlie Moon’s approach but deliberately ignored him until Moon was within arm’s length. Even then, he acknowledged the Ute with an almost imperceptible nod.
Charlie Moon and Oscar Sweetwater are thick as thieves—I bet the tribal chairman sent his big-shot investigator out here to see if I know how to do my job
.

Special Agent McTeague offered the new arrival a curt, professional greeting: “Good afternoon, Mr. Moon.”

Mr. Moon touched the brim of his hat. “Yes it is.”
I hope
.

McTeague gave the tribal investigator a nod. Leaving Wallace Whitehorse behind, she headed off at a brisk pace toward the edge of the cliff, where several SUPD uniforms were gathered. She stopped well short of the cluster of Indian cops.

Charlie Moon glanced back at Whitehorse, who was watching them like a hungry hawk. “What’s going on here?”

The FBI agent looked very pleased with herself. “Believe it or not—I have finally managed to make some progress without any help from you. SUPD dispatch had a call from a tribal member this morning. The caller had been out looking for a few stray cattle, and he’d noticed some apparently suspicious activity on Three Sisters. Officer Blue Clay responded. He found that vehicle.” She pointed at an archaic pickup half hidden by a cluster of scrub oak.

Moon turned. “That looks like Felix Navarone’s fifty-seven Chevy.”

“That’s because it is.” She nodded to indicate the gaggle of policemen at the edge of the Snake Canyon cliff. “Officer Blue Clay also heard some groaning. He took a look over the edge of the cliff, there was a half-dead guy down there on a ledge.”

“Felix Navarone, I presume?”

“None other. The Apache was stranded on a shelf of black rock that sticks out from the cliff wall.” She frowned with the effort to remember. “It’s called the Witch’s Something-or-other.”

“Witch’s Tongue.”

“Oh—right.”

Moon looked over her head. “Stranded? How’d that happen?”

“Search me. We don’t know how he got onto the ledge in the first place, much less how he got stuck there. He didn’t have any climbing gear, and we had to call in Mountain Search and Rescue to rappel down and tie him on a stretcher. It took an hour to get him onto the top of the mesa. Navarone was suffering from shock and exposure, so we couldn’t get anything out of him that made any sense. Only some mumbling about how his
power
had failed, and something about a ghost. He was obviously delirious.”

Moon nodded.

“The suspect might have used a rope to gain access to the ledge.” She watched the Ute’s face, but read nothing there.

“Felix Navarone had a dislocated shoulder from his fight with Jim Wolfe,” Moon said. “And even at his best, I doubt he’d have been able to make that descent with a rope. Much less climb back up again.”

“Good point,” she said. “In any case, there was no sign of any type of climbing gear, so it was apparently removed by a second person. It was almost certainly someone Navarone knew who stranded him on that ledge.”

Moon looked around. “So where is the poor devil?”

“He’s been transported to the hospital in Durango, where he’ll be kept under guard twenty-four seven. Once he’s dismissed, SUPD will hold him for trespassing on restricted tribal lands. That will give us some time to sort out what’s going on.” She paused. “You might like to know what I found on the ledge.”

He grinned. “You rappelled down there?”

“Sure.” Agent McTeague shot him an indignant look. “What do you think—I’d let the boys have all the fun?” She unzipped a pouch pocket on her jumpsuit, produced a small, tagged plastic evidence bag.

Moon leaned to have a closer look. “A cameo.”

“Looks like the thieves left one behind.” She smiled at the lovely antique. “I’ll show it to Jane Cassidy. But it has to be part of the valuables burgled from her museum.”

“I expect you’re right. You find anything else on the Witch’s Tongue?”

“No. Whatever else was there is gone.” She started to address the major issue that was on her mind, decided to put that off. Instead: “Why don’t you ask me if we found anything at the
bottom
of Snake Canyon?”

He had been expecting this. “Okay. What’d you find down there?”

“Unless I’m badly mistaken, the Gourd Rattle campsite.”

Not being able to look the federal cop straight in the eye, Moon gazed over her head. “So they weren’t in Spirit Canyon.”

“They were not. And that’s not all we found.”

“The suspense is unbearable.”

“A grave.”

Moon tried to look surprised. “Occupied?”

“Sad to say—yes.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Forensics will have the last word, but it appears to be the mortal remains of Jacob Gourd Rattle.”

“Agent McTeague—you are a marvel. An outstanding example of the Bureau’s finest.” She did not seem overly pleased with this compliment, so he kept sliding down the slippery slope. “And it was thoughtful of you to call me.”

The tall, strikingly handsome woman fidgeted, leaning first on one shapely leg, then on the other. “I wanted you to be here with me.” Her voice took on a hard edge. “And share my small victory.”

“Don’t be modest, McTeague—this is a big break in the case.” He realized that something unpleasant was missing from the scene, took a second look around. “Where’s Stan Newman?”

“In Dallas. Applying for an opening on the bank-robbery detail.”

“Hope he gets it.” Moon sat down on a ponderosa log, patted a spot beside him. “You have done a full day’s work, McTeague. Take a break. Relax your bones.”

The woman who had just rappelled a hundred feet down a precipitous cliff eyed the proposed seat with no little apprehension. There were undoubtedly all sorts of fuzzy spiders, fire ants, poisonous scorpions, and the like lurking under the dead bark.

Sensing her concern, Charlie Moon removed his denim jacket, draped it over the log.

She sat down beside him.

He noted that for a federal cop, she smelled good. Like peach blossoms.

She gave him a sideways glance. “Charlie, you have a reputation for being rather clever.”

He grinned at his scuffed workboots, which smelled of horse manure. “It’s all hype.”

“I know. But I’m quite impressed with how you knew that the ignition key for Jacob Gourd Rattle’s van would be in Officer Wolfe’s raincoat pocket.”

“Aw, shucks—I didn’t know for sure.” He kicked at a stone. “It was just a hunch.”

The FBI agent sprang to her feet. “Hunch my butt!”

Moon got up from the log. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t give me that oh-so-innocent look. You knew all along that Felix Navarone was mixed up in the Cassidy burglary—and there’s no telling what else you’re still holding back.” Her eyes narrowed to reptilian slits. “You may have even known about the Cassidy loot being hidden on the Witch’s Lip.”

“Tongue.”

“Stop correcting me.”

“Okay. But why would you think I’d know anything about the Witch’s
Lip
?”

She stamped her foot. “Don’t
do
that!”

“You seem to be just the least bit tense, McTeague. If I’ve done something that displeases you, tell me what it is.”

McTeague took in a deep breath, began to count to ten. She did not make it past three. “Surely you did not think you could represent this thief who calls himself Yellow Jacket without the Bureau finding out about it. Sooner or later, one way or another, you are going to tell me what I want to know. So make it easy on yourself.”

He pretended to be confused. “I’d like to help you out, but I don’t know anything about any Mellow Jacket.”

“
Yellow
Jacket!”

“Are you correcting me?” He grinned.

McTeague clenched her teeth. “Charlie, don’t you
dare
do that again.”

“Okay. You want to know all about Yellow Jacket?”

“You know I do—now let’s talk!”

“Sorry. You’ll have to talk to Walter Price.”

The FBI agent thought she had him cornered. “Mr. Price is representing Mel—ah, Yellow Jacket. He is not representing you, therefore you cannot hide behind an alleged attorney-client privilege.”

“I hate to disappoint you.” Moon said this with a sad look. “But the fact is, Walter has been my legal counsel for some years now. And he has strictly advised me not to say a word about any alleged legal transaction that may or may not have occurred between the Cassidys and an anonymous person known as Yellow Jacket. And I never go against my attorney’s advice; otherwise Walter would have a half-wit for a client.”

She started to make a snappish reply, clamped her mouth shut.

He squatted to pick a crimson paintbrush. “McTeague, even if I was able to help, it wouldn’t be right to deprive you of the suspense of the hunt and the joy of discovery. Not knowing what you’re going to find is one percent of the fun.” He offered her the plucked wildflower.

She slapped the blossom out of his hand, made a fist under his nose. “You tell me what else you’ve found out about all these felonies, or so help me I’ll knock your—”

Moon stuck his chin out. “Take your best shot, tough lady. But if you break my jaw, I want you to know that I’ll regret it till my dying day.”

“Oh—you make me
so
mad!”

He grinned. “Even your mean little frown is pretty enough to make a man’s heart skip two or three beats.”

She blushed, glanced at Wallace Whitehorse. The sly chief of police was watching them out of the corner of his eye. “Don’t fool around, Charlie—I’m on duty.”

“And your eyes remind me of those big blue flowers that sprout up in snowy alpine meadows—”

“Stop it!”

He gave her a wounded look. “McTeague, are you peeved at me?”

“
Peeved
is hardly the word. I am very, very
angry
with you.”

Charlie Moon watched her turn and walk away.

Daisy Perika had washed the dishes and was now drying them. While she attended to this chore, the tribal elder’s thoughts were on the events that had recently transpired in Snake Canyon—and not two miles from her home! From what Charlie had told her, the police did not have enough evidence on Felix Navarone to hold him. The rascal who had surely murdered Jacob Gourd Rattle would have to be turned loose. Even though Jacob wasn’t much to brag about, it galled her to think that an Apache could slay a Ute and not pay the price.
But there’s no use in worrying—what can I do about it?

When the answer to that question came to her, she dropped a saucer. It shattered on the floor, sending shards in all directions.

Ignoring this small calamity, the old woman hurried to the place where she kept the oversized, high-power cellular telephone her nephew had given her years ago. She dialed the number she knew by heart. After seven rings, she heard the familiar voice on the recorded message.

“This is the Columbine Ranch. Leave your name and telephone number and—”

Daisy banged her fist on the wall. “Answer it right now, you big—”

He did. “Hello.”

She shouted into the mouthpiece, “When they found that white man’s body, did they—”

“Whoa!”

“Don’t talk to me that way, you big jug-head—I’m not one of your horses.”

“Of course you’re not. But slow down to a trot.” There was a grin in Moon’s voice. “Now what’s all this about a body?”

“I’m talking about that white policeman that worked for the tribe.”

“Jim Wolfe?”

Daisy Perika gritted her teeth. “How many
matukach
wear the SUPD uniform?”

“Good point. What about his body?”

“When that FBI woman found it under that pile of rocks, was there a piece of turquoise on it?”

He stalled. “On it where?”

“Around his neck. On a leather string.”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, don’t just stand there like a fence post—go and find out!”

“Could you tell me why it’s so important?”

“What kind of a policeman are you?”

“The part-time kind. At the moment, I’m helping the Wyoming Kyd work out a way to ship three dozen head of beeves to Kansas City—”

“Forget about that cowboy nonsense. Find out about the turquoise pendant.”

He sighed. “You’re not going to tell me why.”

“And when you find out, let me know. You know where to find me—I won’t be in town kicking up my heels at some honky-tonk. I’m an old woman stuck out here by myself and I don’t hardly ever go nowhere unless somebody feels sorry for me and gives me a ride.” With that, she pushed the End button.

Full of hope, she swept the fragments of the saucer into a dustpan.

Twenty-two minutes later, Daisy’s telephone rang. She snatched it up. “What?”

“There was no turquoise pendant on Jim Wolfe’s corpse,” Moon said in her ear. “Or in his apartment. Or in his locker. Or in his car. Or anywhere else that we know of.”

The tribal elder grinned. “Good.”

“Now will you tell me why—”

“Listen close, and I’ll tell you what you have to do. Find out if that Apache that got stranded on the Witch’s Tongue has the dead white man’s turquoise pendant. Unless you’re more interested in selling cows than finding out who murdered one of the People.” The tribal elder hung up on her nephew. With the murderous Apache in mind, Daisy hummed a happy tune—“In the Jailhouse Now.” That was where Felix Navarone needed to be.